


Dark Necessities

by apolotos



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, F/M, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-06-09 06:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15261228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolotos/pseuds/apolotos
Summary: "Every lord has need of a beast from time to time." - Tywin LannisterMelisandre has full faith this Azor Ahai reborn will save them all but she knows that her ancient savior did not defeat the Great Other alone. She calls upon the gods to summon a warrior and a weapon to aid him.They give her a girl.





	1. the summoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh im sorry in advance. i thought i was gonna ease myself into writing fanfic by starting with an oc and i would never post it but then i actually came up with a whole ass PLOT for it and now im posting it bc nobody is here to stop me! also the OC does some witch-y magic-y things so be prepared for that. i wasn't just gonna set some random girl loose in westeros w/out some help, she has some flimsy purpose ya know?  
> any pairings will be happening much later on/deeper into the plot just be patient

Whatever is happening to Talya, it feels like apparating but botched and painful. It feels like she’s being turned inside out, folding on herself, squeezed by a too-small undulating tube that explodes from pressure. It feels like a portkey, like something hooking onto her spine and pulling her but deeper, like it has latched onto her soul to grab and picked up her body as an afterthought.

It kind of feels like her mistress, like the Moon during her moon, drudging up the darkness beneath her soul and unearthing monstrous debris with it. It is deeply painful and wholly familiar except it is not the night of the full moon. The moon is recently new. It is a waxing sliver on the sky and her mistress has taken leave of her, for now.

Something is wrong.

Talya stumbles over heavy feet and stops suddenly. Her older brother, Augustin, immediately notices her falter and turns on her, grey eyes wide.

“Talya?” he asks and she clutches her chest, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. “Talya—”

She coughs and it does nothing to clear the feeling away, only leaves her breathless and weak. She gasps and curls on herself again. She feels that powerful tug again and digs her heels into the ground as it pulls her back. Her body is being crushed tighter, the hook sinking deeper. She reaches for Augustin and he holds onto her forearms with a bruising grip.

“What’s happening?”

She is being summoned, is what’s happening. She knows it. Something is _pulling_ her. She doesn’t know why.

“ _Dontletgo_.” She growls. Her voice is grating and rips through her clenched jaw as she tries to anchor herself to this ground and her brother in front of her. They are the only words she can get out.

God bless her brother who loves her too much to ask questions when something is clearly wrong. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms under her arms and around her body, clutching him close to his broad chest. Her own hold is weakening and quickly. Quicker than she will ever admit.

She feels a great _lurch_ and has to stop herself from throwing up as she’s yanked away in every which direction. Augustin gasps as he feels her body move not of her accord. She feels the lurch and another compression. Her head is pounding, her bones creaking, that hook tearing into her soul and the darkness underneath.

She hears herself growl and snap and goes weak in her brother’s arms. She does not want to let go but she cannot hold herself up when her bones are breaking. The pain makes her vision go in and out, flashing bright white and fading dark.

It hurts and Augustin does not let go. He holds her tighter.

Who could ask for a better brother?

Talya closes her eyes and embraces the agony.

 

This place is nothing. It feels like fog on her skin. She is flying through it, flipping, twisting, and free falling endlessly and not moving at all. Untethered. It feels free.

And then she blinks and comes upon the moon. It is larger than the sky, larger than anything she has ever seen or felt, grey and luminous and ancient. Her mistress. She braces herself for the pain and when it doesn’t come she tentatively opens her eyes to it.

The voice is not a voice but a feeling.

_You are needed,_ her mistress says. Talya can feel her will settling deep in her bones. It could be magic but it is greater and wilder and brings her to her knees instead of flowing through her. Talya has no chance of resistance, as per usual. Her mistress is too powerful.

Why is something so beautiful so cursed? Sometimes she thinks that if she were not so aware of her own insignificance, if she did not know her mistress’s infinite power she would love it more. Is that love not more valuable than her hate? Not that she is allowed to hate it. The moon is a cruel mistress and her devotion is unwilling and forever eternal. She will die loving this pain.

_A mortal dares call upon us._

Not me, not me, not me, Talya thinks with every cell in her being. She would never. But who is ‘us’?

_They dare summon us and call for a warrior. So we summon you._

Oh. A cosmic joke.

_Yes, our boundless humour._

Talya will not ask what the joke is.

_We give you a gift_ , they say, and the moon becomes a blade falling in front of her, drifting slowly like a piece of paper in a breeze, glittering a thousand different rainbows from a light she cannot see. It’s long enough to be a sword only it is missing the hilt. It comes down only inches away from her face, twisting slowly like it’s on display. She can see her reflection in the flat of the blade, her grey eyes reflecting the shifting colors of the blade, the scars slashing across her left cheek, narrowly missing the very outer corner of her eye, down to the side of her mouth.

Unbidden, she catches the blade and it slices the skin of her palm like a hot knife in butter. Hissing, she switches to her other hand and grips the blade by her fingertips. Her cut palm is burning, blood spilling into the mist and falling endlessly until out of sight.

A speck is rising up from underneath. It grows larger and larger, the color revealing itself to be blood red. It ripples and undulates. It is blood. A pillared fountain of steaming blood _whooshing_ up in this nothingness. It rises above her like a tower and bursts into flame and evaporates into a woman.

She is beautiful, and very, very red. Red-haired, red-eyed, red-gowned. She wears a ruby choker that gleams unnaturally. She tastes like fire and smoke, like brimstone.

The red woman smiles serenely and Talya scowls. She stinks of magic. It clings to her like a rot. Her smile is too—she is too alert. This is not a vision or whatever is happening. This woman is real. The woman opens her mouth to speak but ice begins to creep up the bottom of her flowing red gown, stiffening the fabric with frost until she is totally frozen and shatters.

The ice shards fall like snow and a great tree grows from the mist. The bark is white as bone and the leaves are blood red and in the middle of it’s wide trunk is a face weeping blood.

Behind the tree emerges a massive grey beast.

The wolf—it is a wolf of course, a true one, not the snarling mongrel beast that she knows herself to be—is stunning. She has never seen fur so endless perfectly grey. It feels…familiar and yet not. Peaceful; a feeling she does not come by often. Not for years since her turning.

The giant wolf settles on its haunches at the roots of the tree underneath the twisted face. They stare at each other.

_Now you have the tools,_ the voice echoes in her head.

What? What is your will? What do I _do?_ None of these gifts seem like anything at all. I don’t understand.

_You will know._

How will I know?

_We will tell you._

Then she is falling, for real this time and the world becomes only wind and flame.


	2. the beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now we are in westeros! this is a little bit before the battle of the blackwater, just to give you an idea of the timeline

It was not often Davos found himself at the ritual fires of Lady Melisandre’s red god but tonight, it was at the command of his king and so he trudged down to the beach without complaint. The single pyre was as grand as he had ever seen it and the crowd was large and fierce in their excitement, though it could not be heard. Davos felt their anticipation in the wind whipping off the dark sea and the crashing of waves against the cliffs. It was in the sharp, unnatural scent in the air that cleared his nose and settled there so it was all he could smell.

The night was dark and full of terrors.

The red woman was chanting. He could see her form circling the dark pyre like a shadow. On the sand, he could make out markings that formed a wide circle where she centered the pyre and herself. His king Stannis watched with cold interest. Queen Selyse had a fervent look in her watery eyes.

She would be summoning a weapon tonight. Greater than Stannis’s fiery blade he wielded as the proclaimed Azor Ahai—one reason why Melisandre should be discounted altogether. If her visions were so certain then why would the Savior of the World, Azor Ahai, need a weapon greater than his Lightbringer? The exercise was pointless. All Melisandre was doing was wasting valuable time before their attack on King’s Landing.

At least this required no sacrifice, to his knowledge. The red woman drew on different dark magics tonight.

She raised her arms to the dark, moonless sky and shouted to the heavens. Then, Stannis brought forth a torch and lit the pyre.

The fire burst unnaturally, engulfing the pyre in flame in less than a blink and sending Davos’s heart pounding. The wind screeched, the sharp, unnatural smell intensified. Davos flinched away from the heat. It was burning white hot, growing and shifting and twisting, as if it meant to set fire to the whole beach. Melisandre danced in and out of the flames, chanting louder and louder. Davos heard nothing but the wind howling. Or the wind was howling with her.

Then, silence. The winds fell and the waves calmed to a quiet lapping on the shore. And from the pyre stood the shadow of some figure.

Davos gasped as the figure jumped from the pyre and rolled on the wet sand, extinguishing what little flame that had caught onto it.

Whatever it was, it was not a shadow. Surely no shadow would fear flame, not one of Melisandre’s shadows, not one that would extinguish itself so fully like this one.

And this shadow coughed. And struggled to its feet.

Melisandre watched it with an excited smile. She made no move to help it up but stood in front of it. She would be the first thing it saw, like a child looking upon its mother for the first time, like the shadow she had borne weeks ago.

In the firelight, he could see that the shadow Melisandre summoned was a woman. Her skin was dark, her hair piled atop her head, her eyes dark and reflective. She was shorter than Melisandre but not by much and her chest heaved dramatically as she breathed. She was terrified, the poor thing.

Was this what their war had come to? Sacrificing children, summoning women to the flames of this cruel fire god? This was not _right._

“You summoned me?” she croaked.

“The Lord of Light showed me his will and through me, brought you. Welcome.” The red woman said serenely.

“ _You_ summoned me,” the dark woman repeated, her voice cold and hard. She took a step towards Melisandre and grabbed her firmly by the throat, bringing her pale face down to her dark one. “I should kill you.” she sneered, jerking her violently.

Were they meant to stop this? Half of the worshippers seemed shocked to dullness at the fact that Melisandre had actually brought someone forth from the fires.

Then, Melisandre made a choking sound and they turned to action. But the woman released her, throwing her bodily to the sand. She was surrounded by the knights and lords of the Stormlands and King Stannis himself, pointing his flaming sword at her. Davos was only shocked.

“Do not attack her! She is—“

“Shut the _fuck up!_ ” she screeched, grasping Melisandre by the hair and baring her throat. There was a knife in the dark woman’s hand that she gripped tightly as she pressed it to the side of Melisandre’s throat. “Stay back, all of you, or she dies _now_.”

“Put down your swords, my lords.” Melisandre spoke calmly from her knees.

The woman jerked Melisandre’s head and she silenced. “Do not speak. Put down the swords and step back.”

The knights glanced to their king. Stannis regarded her fiercely and then nodded. “Stand down,” he said but he still pointed his own sword at her. “Release her.”

“Tell me where I am.” She demanded.

“Who are you to make demands of your king?” Queen Selyse spoke fiercely.

The dark woman laughed. A short, cruel bark of bitterness. “I’m your gift from the gods.”

By the seven.

They would all pay for Melisandre’s sins now.

The red woman tested her silence. “You are in Westeros now, to aid Azor Ahai in defeating the Great Other. That is why I have summoned you. R’hllor bid me so.” she explained, wincing at the dark woman’s tight grip on her hair. “Do you have a name, Warrior?” she asked.

“ _Do I have a fucking name?!_ ” the dark woman yelled. She released Melisandre and kicked her in the back, well away from herself and Melisandre fell with a loud, mortal grunt. The wind picked up once more and the unnaturally clean scent intensified in Davos’s nose, only this time he knew it came from her, from this summoned warrior. A stolen one, judging by her reaction. One that did not ask for this.

“Calm yourself, woman.” Stannis spat.

“Oh, are you the king?” she mocked. “Do _you_ have a name?”

“You are speaking to the one true king and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Stannis Baratheon.” Davos spoke suddenly, keeping his voice steady and not unkind. He wanted to bite his tongue off when she turned her eyes on him, burning bright in the darkness.

Her eyes reflected the fire overly much, like they glowed with their own unnatural light. Her gaze was more unsettling than her anger. She had the flat eyes of an animal, like what wasn’t anger in her was aggressive instinct. It made him shiver. She seethed like an animal too.

Good gods, what had possessed him to speak? He could not stop now for she was gazing at him relentlessly, like a hawk that had spotted its prey.

“You are at Dragonstone, our king’s seat.” He continued shakily.

The woman stared at him for another long moment. “Who are you, then?”

“I am Ser Davos Seaworth. Might I ask for—”

“And who is _this_?” she sneered, nudging Melisandre with foot. She had remained on the sand where the woman had kicked her, undaring to move but staring at the woman—the warrior—she had summoned with great interest.

“That is Lady Melisandre of Asshai. She is a…” he trailed off, looking for polite words.

“She is a witch.” The woman finished for him, lips curling into a snarl. “I’m familiar with the type.” She said, pulling the red woman up to her feet with one arm.

She linked their arms together and held Melisandre close, their faces as close as lovers. The knife had disappeared or the woman was holding it creatively against Melisandre, for the red woman was completely still, her expression miles away from the serenity she always portrayed.

“My name is Talya.” She said plainly. Her voice was low and exotic, not unlike Melisandre's but like a jagged, rusted blade. “Take me to your castle then, King Stannis. I’m sure we have much to discuss."

_******* _

When R’hllor showed her the warrior they needed, the one to help Azor Ahai, they showed her a pale man with dark hair and snow, endless snow, and a weirwood tree. So she set the pyre with a weirwood branch at its center and drew the ritual she had discovered on the sand of the beach. She imagined the warrior she had seen in the fire, the handsome young man with pale skin and dark hair and summoned him to her.

Clearly she had interpreted that wrong somewhere along the way.

She had summoned someone but a woman. She was not pale but warm umber in skin color, though she did have the dark curly hair. Grey eyes, yes, but dark as slate. Attractive, yes, but marred by the scars on the left side of her face. Powerful, yes, but not a warrior. Not like the ones she had known.

This woman she had summoned was powerful in something else. Melisandre could taste her power, foreign and ancient and wild. It was sharp and visceral but intangible all the same and left her feeling numb and tingling when she tried to grasp onto it. Melisandre could see it in her eyes that glittered like dark gems, an eerie heaviness in her sharp gaze. It was like watching a wild sea thrash against the jagged rocks below, like an approaching thunderstorm growing louder and brighter with lightning.

She had thought she would have some control over the warrior she summoned. She had no control over this woman. None at all. When she had forced her to her knees and held that knife to her throat she had been almost sure she would die, for the blade nicked her just underneath her jaw when she opened her mouth unbidden too soon after the woman’s warning.

The warrior R’hllor had shown her was a gentle man with kind, somber eyes. Perhaps she could have had a way with him. This one, though…she felt bloodthirsty. Merciless. She would not thank Melisandre for giving her this gift, for bringing her to glory. She did not think she wanted it.

That was fine. As long as she helped Azor Ahai, as long as she contributed to their cause, as long as the Great Other was defeated, Melisandre could suffer this…embarrassment.

The warrior—Talya, she had called herself, what a simple name—did not allow Melisandre to be separated from herself. As they had walked from the beach up to the castle of Dragonstone, with their arms intertwined like bosom companions, Melisandre had felt only like a hostage. It only reminded her of something she had thought she’d forgotten, years and years and years ago.

Melony had been dragged away similarly.

Talya dogged King Stannis’s footsteps preternaturally, wholly unconcerned with the presence of trained, armed knights watching her so closely or the lords that she pushed out of their rightful positions. She did not let Ser Davos out of sight either, come to mind, who had miraculously spoken to her reasonably.

She followed Stannis into the Great Hall where he dismissed all of the lords present. Ser Davos remained with a long look from Talya and Melisandre remained with a squeeze of Talya’s strong arm around hers, constricting like a python. Stannis glared at them all relentlessly.

“You are dismissed.” He said harshly.

“Your grace,” Davos began, “Is it not—”

“We must discuss this bounty the Lord of Light has given us, my king.” Melisandre interrupted. Talya’s grip tightened.

“Bounty?” Stannis seethed. “All you have brought me is a woman unfit for polite company. What use is she to me on a battlefield? Can she command men? Can she even wield a sword?”

“My king, this woman has _power_.” Too much power. Power greater than her own. “She is a warrior in her own right, there can be no other reason the gods sent her to you. We must take advantage of—"

The knife that been pressed against her ribs poked through her dress and into her skin suddenly. A dangerous pinprick of a needle. Melisandre quieted and looked to Stannis, Azor Ahai come again, and willed his visage to give her strength.

“None of you are taking advantage of anything.” Talya said lowly.

Melisandre fought to keep her breathing calm. “You have a great part to play in the wars to come. It is why I brought you here.”

“You _stole_ me.” she hissed.

Melisandre had been stolen once.

_Melony. Lot Seven._

That was a lifetime ago. Lifetimes ago. She would not think overly much on it. That life was nothing. She had never even lived. Herself as she was now was much more than she ever could have been. If she had never been stolen, she would never have found R’hllor. If Talya had not needed to be here then she would not be. Tonight’s events only proved how powerful R’hllor’s will could be, to summon a being across time and space and bring them to Azor Ahai where they were needed.

Melisandre looked into her sharp grey eyes.

“I have seen you in the fires, Talya Astun.”

Yes. R’hllor had seen it fit to give Melisandre the girl’s full name. It had crackled in the flames. _Talya Astun_. She did not recognize it, could not determine its origin but she knew it. There was power in a name, there always was.

The girl hesitated for a moment, eye widening. Then she grew fiercer. “Because you put me there, you cunt!” she shouted, shoving Melisandre bodily with one strong arm. Melisandre fell into Ser Davos and he righted her quickly, taking his hands off her like she burned him.

“Enough!” Stannis boomed. “Clearly this was a mistake. This…whatever she is, is not the warrior you summoned for. Send her on her way.” Stannis turned on his heel and stalked out of the hall.

 _No!_ This was too important. Wherever Talya had come from, Melisandre had seen her in the fires. She was needed. They needed to use her in this battle, she was too valuable otherwise.

Melisandre chased after him. “My king, you must give this a chance. She is too powerful to ignore.”

“I have an invasion to prepare for. I cannot waste my time on magic.”

“When have I steered you wrong?”

She had him there. So far, she had not. So far, she had given him all the tools needed. Now he was well on his way to claiming his throne, every step taking him closer and closer to the Great Other. He would bring light to this world again. She could feel it.

Stannis stared at her for a long moment and then turned away.

“You have until tomorrow, Lady Melisandre.”

She nodded gracefully. “Until tomorrow, my king.”


	3. welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talya is not happy with these recent developments.

Talya is in a place called Westeros. She’s never heard of it anywhere, as it doesn’t exist. Because she has been summoned by the moon—or something presenting itself as the moon to get her to listen to it—across literal time and space to an alternate universe/completely different planet where there are two very big continents called Westeros and Essos and some other places and no proven theory that the world is round, because the place is fucking _medieval_.

The maester—it’s what they call the men who bother to learn how to read or whatever—wearing a grey sack and shackles around his neck confirms it all for her. He shows her maps of the known world that she makes copies of using magic and he nearly faints. She stares at him until he is able to calm himself. He’s a young guy, only a little bit older than herself, and he’s terrified of her.

She usually enjoys terrifying men. It helps her discern which ones are worth her time. This one smells like a virgin. Not surprising.

“You…” he says shakily.

She raises her eyebrow at him. He blanches.

“Was that magic you just did? To copy the map so perfectly?”

The red woman, Melisandre, is sitting in front of the hearth right where Talya left her when they entered the library, looking deeply into the flames. She’s not looking at her but Talya knows she’s paying close attention. Why else would she be here still? It was late enough that the red witch should have been sleeping, likely in a bed of smoldering embers.

“Yes," she tells him flatly.

His jaw drops. “How did you…was it a spell? How did you produce another parchment?”

She ignores the question because she doesn’t have the time or will to make him understand. It's bad enough she's just done magic in front of him. She doesn’t want him to understand. She wants to go home but she knows that isn’t going to happen.

“Bring me more maps,” she tells him and the maester scurries off to do just that.

In ten minutes she has maps of the known world, of Westeros and Essos in varying detail, rolled up and safely stored in a conjured tube. It doesn't seem large on paper but there's a lot on this continent and that's with shitty, medieval mapmaking techniques. It might not even be accurate. Everything might be  _bigger_. The thought makes her want to shiver.

In return, she lets the maester examine a pen she found in her bag, like one would give a child their phone to distract them with colorful lights. He’s fascinated by it.

“Melisandre,” Talya calls out. The red woman that reeks of magic, the one that dared call upon the _whatever_ that called upon Talya as part of some joke. She does not move from the fire but stiffens.

Good. She better be fearful.

Talya wants to rip all of that pretty red hair out of her fucking head. She wants to hold her face against the brazier and hear it sizzle. She wants to kill her for what she’s done, for stealing her, for standing there and acting like she should be grateful for it.

Eventually the woman stands up from the hearth and turns to Talya. She is very beautiful in a villainous sort of way, like she would bite off a man’s penis after making him come or something otherwise sexually heinous, just for fun.

“I’m summoning you,” Talya says with a cruel smirk, beckoning with a finger. “Come here.”

The serenity of her expression withers into an annoyed pursing of her lips but she floats over in her blood silk dress and stands across from her. She doesn’t _look_ like a witch but there is something distinctly witchy about her. And the beastly part of Talya can truly smell the rotten death on the woman, the dark magic that’s just oozing out of her perfect pores. Generally it smells like raw, bloody meat. Melisandre’s has a distinct taste of char and smoke and a stagnant, suffocating smell she can’t determine.

Talya allows the silence to stretch awkwardly as she stares at Melisandre, trying to determine what is so off about her face besides her entire aura. It’s _something_ in her face but Talya honestly doesn’t even want to look at her. It makes her feel violent. She wants to choke her again. She wants to rip that ruby off her neck and see what happens. Maybe she’ll turn to dust.

“Why do you need a warrior?” she asks, squinting up at Melisandre.  _Why did you bring me here, bitch?_

Melisandre smiles and sits down. The maester has abandoned the pen and is watching the two of them warily. He’s sitting between them, at the head of the table. He must be terrified. He stinks of fear. Fear and other bodily odors. Everyone in this castle fucking smells.

“In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” she begins, her voice low and hypnotic.

“King Stannis,” Talya concludes. “He had a flaming sword at the beach.”

The king of this place was a tall, balding man with a hard, mean face. The few words Talya had heard from him just an hour ago were lacking in any basic charm at all. She didn’t like him. Not because he was ugly or called her ‘unfit for polite company.’ It was just a matter of principle. She would like no one in this world she had been summoned to, the red woman and the king she had summoned her for chief among them.

Melisandre nods. “Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai come again. But these books do not forget to mention those who helped him on his journey to defeat the Great Other that challenges the Lord of Light, R’hllor. And it was in the fires that R’hllor showed me you, Talya Astun, one of many to come to the aid of Azor Ahai. You play a part in protecting the world henceforth from the rising darkness.”

Talya’s right eye twitches when Melisandre says her full name.

She hadn’t given her full name when she…arrived but somehow, Melisandre had known. If this R’hllor is showing her something, then he’s showing her something of the truth.

But the powers that brought her here—and they were not Melisandre’s powers nor did they feel like some fire god—hadn’t shown her the king she had met. She had seen Melisandre very clearly and then seen Melisandre shattered by ice. She had seen a white barked tree with red leaves that the maester calls a weirwood, but there aren’t any on this dragon island. She had seen a crystal blade but it wasn’t flaming and hadn’t actually cut her hand at all. She had seen a wolf but in this castle, there were only banners of crowned stags and fiery hearts. They had told her she would know what to do and that they would tell her. Nothing told her about _this_.

Talya leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.

“R’hllor didn’t show me you.” she says quietly and Melisandre’s façade cracks into surprise as she leans forward in interest.

“You have looked into the flames?”

Talya nods slowly. “I didn’t see you when I journeyed here.” she lies. Melisandre is drinking it all up.

“What did He show you?”

“So much and so little. I can't explain it.” Talya says, fearful yet earnest. She only needed to make herself sound breathy and look into the red woman's scarlet eyes. They were a flat shade of red all around with no scattering, like blood spilled over her irises. “It confused me but it led me here. I can…I can feel that I have a task. Am I making sense?”

It’s formaldehyde, Talya realizes. Somehow, for some reason, Melisandre smells like blood and char and smoke and formaldehyde. Like someone had embalmed a burned body.

Melisandre smiles. “There is hope for you yet, young warrior. His light has touched you and now you are on the path.” She swept back over to the hearth and watched the flames once more.

Talya is going to kill her. It won’t be right, or fair, or just. It probably won’t even make her feel good. But Talya is going to kill this red woman. She's going to make her regret ever learning a single spell. She hopes the red bitch sees that in the flames. 

She broke the silence with a quiet voice. “Maester…” she trailed off, nodding at him.

“Pylos.” The young man offered.

“Pylos,” she repeats. “Will you help me? You have the king’s ear, you can tell me what he needs from me.” She doesn’t smile at him but she does attempt to soften her face. He responds with a kind smile and gives a short history of Westeros and the events leading up to the war.

King Stannis is not king of anything yet. He declared himself so after the death of his older brother Robert because Robert’s wife Cersei has been sleeping with her brother the Kingslayer, who killed the king before Robert, and all of her children are actually his, not the dead king’s. But Stannis’s younger brother Renly also declared himself king only to get himself killed in a suspicious way Pylos seems determined not to speak about, as he keeps looking at Melisandre at this part. Now Stannis has part of Renly’s old army and they are on their way to King’s Landing to take the city and claim the Iron Throne, made out of swords, so everyone will know that Stannis is truly the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Ha. There aren’t Seven Kingdoms anymore. Around the time Robert died, his right hand man Eddard Stark was executed for treason so his son Robb is now fighting a war in the Riverlands for revenge and Northern independence, but there was already fighting there because his mother Catelyn Stark arrested Tyrion Lannister, a dwarf, for some reason and then lost him. Robb Stark is also a king, only a king in the North and now Stannis’s seven kingdoms are down to six.

Also, the Iron Islands, a whole ass colony of pirates, have declared themselves independent _again_ and are plundering the North. Theon Greyjoy, an Ironborn heir that was held hostage by the Starks escaped and killed the two youngest Stark boys and captured their castle Winterfell. So Stannis has only five kingdoms though in reality he actually doesn’t have any because he’s here on Dragonstone, which used to belong to the Targaryens that united the seven kingdoms in the first place.

And the Starks have a grey direwolf on their banner and they pray to the old gods, to weirwoods: trees with white bark and red leaves and faces carved into the trunk crying bloody sap.

 _Stark,_ her head echoes. _Stark, Stark_. The voice is not her voice. The voice is not a voice at all, but a feeling.

 _North_.

So whatever brought her here wasn't lying. They had told her, are telling her. She knows instinctively, deep in her bones, that these Starks are the way of it.

Talya maneuvers the conversation north. Maester Pylos doesn’t know particularly much about it. They know that the Starks were Kings of Winter for thousands of years before the arrival of the Targaryens and their dragons.

(DRAGONS.)

They worship the old gods and fought wars to keep the Andal religion of the Faith of the Seven out of their kingdom. They pray at the heart tree. The Stark’s sigil is a direwolf. The lands are cold and harsh and Northerners are savages. Robb Stark is said to turn into a wolf in the heat of battle, like skinchangers of northern legend. He eats enemy soldiers, tears them to shreds. He has never lost a battle.

The Lannisters in King’s Landing hold the Stark daughters hostage but the Robb Stark holds Jaime Lannister hostage, who is Tywin Lannister’s favorite son and the brother that is fucking his sister Cersei, the queen, who is also his twin. And apparently their son, Joffrey, is mad.

 _Stark_ , her mind is echoing. Stark, Stark, Stark.

Sansa Stark takes after her mother, with red hair and blue eyes. Arya Stark takes after her father, brown hair and grey eyes. They are hostages in King’s Landing.

Talya allows the conversation to drift away. She helps the maester put away all the books. Melisandre is still in front of the fire and Talya’s eyes are burning.

She wants to go home. She…doesn’t wish her brother was here but Augustin would know what to do. This would be easier if Augustin was here. Augustin has always helped her and he always knows what to do. He would be able to do _something_ , at least.

But now she must pretend to sleep. Talya makes Melisandre escort her to her chambers, along with a maid that stares at Talya like she’s never seen a brown person before. She probably never has. Talya stares at her until the girl avoids looking at her at all.

The room they’ve put her in is a small and unglamorous. The bed is uncomfortable and she feels like there are bugs crawling all over her. Nothing feels sanitary or truly clean. She wants to take a shower but that doesn’t exist here. She wants to wash her face and brush her teeth but those products don’t exist here.

At least there’s food.

It’s bland.

Talya cleans the bed and sheets and pillow with magic. She wards the area around it beyond what a paranoid freak would require. She doesn’t change her clothes because she doesn’t have clothes to change into. She was only outside because she was going to with her brother to meetup with friends downtown. She had brought her backpack but there was only bullshit in it: cigarettes and weed and a lighter, her makeup bag, her water bottle, her phone and headphones, a notebook and a pen. It’s useless. There’s actually negative phone service in Westeros. She leaves everything on the bed with her, right next to her feet. She won't be letting anything she owns out of her sight.

The luckiest thing that’s happened is that she’s wearing her indestructible black Levi’s and Doc Martens and they miraculously survived the pyre she landed on.

A fucking  _pyre._

She forces herself to lay down. If she puts all of her hair in front of her nose and covers her ears, it feels like she’s falling asleep at her cousin’s house.


	4. learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre tries to figure out this warrior she has summoned. (spoiler: she doesn't learn much)

Melisandre knew the men called her many names. The red woman, the red witch, the red whore, the red shadow. Absently, she wondered what they would call Talya Astun. The dark woman? The black witch? It was hard to determine. The witch herself was hard to determine.

She was volatile, that was for certain. Melisandre had presented the witch to Stannis the day after she had arrived and Talya had seen fit to provide him an example of her abilities. Melisandre still could not make sense of what had happened.

The witch had given no warning, only a wicked smirk. Melisandre heard her stomp one foot in her heavy black boots and sharply extend an arm in Melisandre’s direction. There was a rising buzzing in her ears, like a swarm of insects and then she saw the intense blue light from Talya’s fingertips coming towards her chest. Then she remembered nothing. It was just like sleep.

She had awoken with Talya’s hands on her head, squeezing her skull slowly, gritting her teeth like she was fighting herself from crushing it between her strong hands. Talya had shaken her head in her hands and then clamped her hands down on her shoulders, digging her fingers deep into the hollows of her collarbones.

“I could’ve killed her in a similar way. It does not take much.” The witch had said, eyes wide with cruelty. Whatever civility the witch had had for her when they spoke the night before had run out. “There are those who think it unforgiveable but it is an instant, bloodless death.” Her eyes burned with promise. An instant, bloodless death was not her intention for Melisandre.

 _How_ , Melisandre wanted to ask. How could she summon so awesome a power with so little sacrifice? She had no requirement of king’s blood, king’s seed. It was freely given and freely taken. It went against all laws of nature.

Talya answered her questions without knowing as she explained it to Stannis.

“Magic is energy, it only needs a conduit. It’s matter, I just…tell it my will. Now, you only need tell me yours.” She said, twirling her fingers and a scarlet orchid blossomed in the palm of her hand. It disintegrated into embers that floated away on a breeze she created with her breath.

She had gazed up at Stannis with a small smile that made her dark looks alluring, slate grey eyes turned molten quicksilver in the daylight. Stannis stared back not with a smile on his face but an infinitesimal, self-satisfied twitch of his lips and Melisandre knew Azor Ahai was had.

So Melisandre watched her closely, with her own eyes and through R’hllor, though He never showed her in the flames. It had only been her name He had given her that fateful night. Talya—and the root of her powers—were still a mystery to her.

But no matter. She could solve the mysteries of the universe later, when the darkness had been beaten back.

She only needed to be certain that darkness was not Talya Astun.

The dark witch had spent her days so far in the training yard, practicing with a blunted sword. It was clear she had never used a sword before, for she was clumsy and uncertain and burned with embarrassment at times. Yet she held her temper—and Melisandre knew the girl had quite the temper to be held—and kept working with Ser Richard Horpe, as Melisandre had instructed him to be the one to train her. He noted that she was quick and much stronger than she looked. And she knew when Melisandre was near, for when the red woman was gone, the girl fought with clumsy sword and deadly magic hand in hand and beat Ser Richard every time for sheer unpredictability.

When she wasn’t in the yard, she would disappear completely, not found in her meager chambers or in any of the gardens or anywhere. Once she had been spotted down at the beach but had vanished when guards went to seek her out. The girl was wandering and spying all over the castle, everywhere and nowhere at once. Melisandre knew that had to be magic at work. The girl was finding a way to cloak herself out of sight, using glamours or another illusion. The girl left traces. The magic she used was foreign and out of reach and the more Melisandre tried to reach for it and draw it to her own, the further it receded, to her chagrin. If she resisted the urge to chase after it, Melisandre’s base senses could recognize it.

And this night, she was fortunate enough to have found her. Talya was in the armory, plundering perhaps for her spy had spotted the girl looking at daggers keenly earlier, and Melisandre was waiting for her.

By His light, had she not been watching so closely, she would have missed it completely.

The door opened silently and Melisandre’s eyes slid past it, diverting to the empty dark yard. The yard was empty of course. Of course.

What was she looking for again? She forced her eyes back to the armory and beyond it. there was a small movement—no. Only the flickering of firelight. There was nothing there. Melisandre’s eyes slid past, she looked opposite to the yard. The yard was empty of course. It was past midnight and knights needed their rest.

She felt off-balance and irked. She needed to return to her braziers. She needed clarity. She turned on her heel and began the climb up to her chambers. The corridors were dreary, save for the torches interspersed to light the way. It was when her hand touched the doorknob that she remembered what had sent her from her rooms before.

The witch. The girl was hiding in the darkness. She needed to be found.

Melisandre spun around and strode down the hall but something distracted her: a shadow. She froze and listened closely but there was nothing. Out the corner of her eye, there was a quick movement of darkness. She spun again. What creature was this?

“Looking for me?”

Melisandre forced herself not to jump, not to gasp so loudly. It was only a sharp inhale.

It was Talya Astun. She heard her voice. She could feel her near. All the hairs on her arms were standing and her chest sprouted goosebumps. She was there, only Melisandre could not see her. She could only see the flickering of firelight just beyond her, the shifting shadow.

“You’re a good sneak, Melisandre.” The voice spoke. As she spoke, Melisandre could see more of her. The dark outline of her body was only just out of arms reach. She could make out her wild mane of curls and the shape of her figure but her eyes slid past, unbidden, like she did not want to look. But she did. The more she wanted to see, the more her head ached and the less clear the girl became. She was only a dark shroud, worse than one of her shadows.

“It seems to me that you are a better one,” Melisandre retorted but tipped her head respectfully. “You are a talented illusionist.” She complimented.

There! A molten flash of silver. Talya’s eyes were too bright to hide in the dark. It was easier to find her face once she knew her eyes. The glamor looked like she had covered herself in sheer black silk, her features indistinct and blurred underneath, but she was there.

“Thank you.”

They stood in silence.

“Well? Are you going to invite me in?” she said shortly.

Oh, so the witch would show civility tonight? Melisandre resisted sighing and allowed the girl’s shadow into her chambers. She would ignore this and do what she had aimed to do before. Light her braziers. Pray. Seek answers.

But before…what had sent her away? She had been looking for something…

Melisandre lit the brazier in the center of her chambers.

Talya Astun suddenly became clear and solid before her on the other side of the flames and Melisandre’s confusion cleared.

The witch had not taken well to the fashions of the realm. The three plain, dark gowns Melisandre had provided for her had become breeches and shirts, though she had no idea how she had transformed them so quickly and finely. More of that indomitable will, she supposed. The breeches and tunics suited her well, though, and she was undaunted by any stares she received because of it.

“Do the fires usually keep you up this late?” the girl wondered.

“It is easy to lose time looking into the flames.”

“I would’ve thought looking at fire for so long would blind you or something.” she said with a shrug.

Melisandre smiled tightly. “That too. But tonight, it was the howling that kept me awake.”

A most auspicious occurrence. There were no wolves on Dragonstone and yet this night, there had been howling heard by the servants and knights guarding the dungeons. They had said it was coming from underneath. They feared that the young Stark had come but the flames had shown her a lone beast of endless, formless darkness with eyes of scarlet red. The howling had quieted soon after and they brushed it off as strange wind.

The witch hummed. “I heard it too.”

“The night is dark and full of terrors.”

Talya gazed heavily into the flames. “I’m not afraid of wolves.” She said bitterly.

Melisandre nodded once. “So it was a wolf that gave you this?” she asked, grazing her ruined cheek with the back of her finger.

In truth, the scar was not so bad. Whatever animal had caused it—Melisandre deduced it was some sort of mongrel—had not gotten very far with it’s attack. There were deep clawmarks down her left cheek, from her hairline to her chin, but they had healed remarkably well. She was lucky. It was a balanced marring. She was not as ugly as she was intriguing to look upon.

Talya grabbed her wrist tightly and forcefully moved it away from her face. “In a fashion.”

“Ah. You use your talents to hide the severity of it?” she prodded. The girl said nothing but her mouth tightened. “I have never understood the aversion to markings as such. Those who are marked are always stronger for it.”

“You have your talents as well,” Talya said thoughtfully, looking up with her heavy molten eyes, and she tapped her fingernail to the ruby around her neck.

Melisandre recoiled.

“You dare…”

“Oh, sorry,” she said absently. “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. It’s a fine piece of work really. I admire it. Look,” she reached into her shirt and pulled out a long silver chain. On the chain were two rings, one pear shaped opal and the other moonstone, both paved with diamonds on a silver band. “I have some too.”

“Fascinating.” She gritted. She did not care one whit. It was a meaningless, insulting gesture. The rings did not hold much of Talya’s power, if any at all. Melisandre could sense it. Opal was too ornamental, moonstone as well…what purpose did they serve? Something over-specific and trivial, surely. Did they help her tell what phase of the moon it was? Melisandre had noticed how concerned she was with it for reasons that escaped her utterly.

All the girl had to do was _look up_. The moon was full tonight.

Talya shrugged. “We all have our tricks.”

“You more than most.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh no, you’ve found me out.” she said drolly.

Melisandre regarded her for a long moment.

“There are mysteries to you that the fires keep hidden from me.” she conceded. “But slowly, I am learning you.”

Those unflinching eyes settled on her once more. Melisandre felt slightly trapped. The witch looked at her like one would look closely at a colorful insect, like she was deciding whether or not to crush it.

"What have you learned, then?" she asked, genuine curiosity alighting her eyes.

Melisandre smiled. "I have learned that you are more than the warrior I asked for. You are greater than I hoped."

The girl shrugged. "I sure am. What else?"

Melisandre hummed and tried to look into the flames but she could not focus with the girl standing in front of her like that and her relentless gaze piercing through her. She blurred her vision, scattered her sight. Just like earlier in the night, she could only see that seamless, formless creature of darkness. What was R’hllor telling her? What did it mean?

Was it the girl? Skinchanging was not so literal a practice. Perhaps, maybe in those darkest and farthest lands of Mossovy did those savages fully embrace their animals but Melisandre could not know. Those strange, grim people fancied themselves demon hunters and violently cursed the name of R’hllor and all His followers. If Melisandre was a lesser priestess, she would think the Great Other came from those cursed hinterlands. If the girl was from there, it would explain her hostility to Melisandre and her otherwise unpleasantness.

"You...you know darkness. I can sense it within you. You know the enemy. Your counsel will be invaluable to Azor Ahai."

Talya nodded approvingly. "Profound, okay. I'm into it. Continue."

"But it means you are attainted. How can I know you will not turn your back and return to that darkness?"

"You're asking good questions, Melisandre, I like this foresight. How will you keep me from straying?"

Melisandre stiffened. "You would stray from his light?"

Talya huffed and smiled incredulously. Her grin was crooked, as the ruined side of her face had less mobility than the other, but softened her face pleasantly and was charming in a way. She had very white, perfectly straight teeth. "Did you think I would just join your cause without asking for anything? Out of the goodness of my heart?"

"You made no special terms of your service when you spoke to the king."

Talya laughed. "Why would I bargain with someone who doesn't even have the ability to give me what I want?"

"You would ask me for  _compensation_?" she seethed. "For doing the work of Azor Ahai, for putting you directly on the path to greatness?"

"I would accept your life as payment but I know you would never give it to me, so I will have to take it at another time."

" _You_ —!"

" _Me_." She sneered. Her eyes burned with firelight and she took a step around the brazier, towards Melisandre. "I want you to know that your life has been forfeit from the very moment you summoned me here. Your life is mine, now. You live at my grace. Am I understood?" she asked coldly, less than a foot away from Melisandre.

This girl was feral deep inside. Melisandre's ears were ringing, and that sound was rising with every step the witch took towards her. It was like a rising swarm of insects coming up from behind her and cornering her in with this savage girl. She did not know why she was so afraid. She could not look away from her uncanny, unwavering stare.

Then she clapped her hands together over the flames. She heard a deluge of water and then the room was completely dark, smoking filling her eyes and lungs.

Melisandre stumbled backwards but the girl caught her by the shoulder and wrapped both hands into her hair, pulling her face close to hers. Their chests touched and she felt herself going cross-eyed keeping the girl's gaze, so she focused on one burning eye instead, grappling with the girl's thick, strong arms. Then, Melisandre felt the cold press of steel at the back of her neck and she stiffened completely.

The knife caressed the back of her neck and slid smoothly into her hair. It made a polite sawing sound. Then, Talya released Melisandre and took a swift step away from her.

"That will do as payment for now." Talya's voice echoed.

The door opened and closed behind her and then Melisandre was alone, left cautiously feeling the short stubby ends of hair at her nape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehhh a bit of a filler but i wanted to show a little bit of what melisandre thinks of talya. she doesn't cut off all of her hair, just a little piece at the back.


	5. the blackwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talya is not a knight in shining armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beginning of some big AU differences.  
> also pls lmk if i make any grammatical errors i don't have a beta and so far i've been doing okay but just let me know :)))

The world is green chaos.

Fire, so much fire, bright green behind her lids, singeing her, blinding her, stuffing cotton deep in her ears. Still she can hear war. Swords clashing, shouting, screaming and drums. She thinks the drums are not loud enough. She only wants to hear the drums and her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

The girl inside of Talya, not the witch, is afraid. She has never seen violence. She has felt violence, yes. The witch in her has killed thrice but that was not war. This is _war_. This is battle. This is blood and raw fear and looking a man in his eyes as you rip into his guts. It makes her deeply afraid. It makes her feel frantic. She can feel herself slipping.

The moon is waning but the beast within is not sleeping. This world, wherever it is, whatever it is, loosens the curse’s hold on her. She can better control it now but the beast is more often awake. It loves fighting, loves being fought, loves winning a fight, because it always wins. It has never lost. It wants to taste blood, metallic and numb, the ultimate palate cleanser. It wants to feel the give of flesh underneath. It looks at the war in front of her and finds glory.

 _You have killed already_ , it whines, _let me kill. Let me taste._

 _No_. She curbs that violence. She will save that savagery for another time soon. There is no place for savagery tonight.

She had been in one of the ships at the very front of the fleet and seen the boats behind explode into green fire from whatever sickly alchemy had been done to it. It was the most terrific thing she had ever seen. Not even magical fire is so fearsome. She's never seen anything like it.

They did not dock but crashed ashore and Talya was swept off by the charge of soldiers around her. They launch her into the fray and she ducks and weaves around them all. Silently, she slips away from the fighting

Sneaking is easy in chaos. The men aren’t looking for dark girls in shadows. They’re looking for men in armor with glinting swords, shouting their loyalties as they clash. Hopping along the city walls completely hidden and disillusioned makes her feel godlike. She doesn’t even have to know where to go, she just moves towards the shadow of the giant castle on the hill. She doesn’t even have to walk, she can pop over the distance in the blink of an eye. These people are ants.

This city smells terribly of shit. There’s the burning of Stannis Baratheon’s fleet over all of it, cutting through that stink like incense but Talya’s more acute senses can smell it. It smells like a hundred thousand people’s stink and their shit and their horses’ stink and their horses’ shit.

How can anyone live like this? Talya thought she was going to lose her fucking mind trapped on a boat with no running water and those horrible storms sailing up here. She had to conjure a bucket and water so she could wash herself every night.

Even people in prison get to take showers. She is being held hostage by stink. It’s like a form of torture.

There are a lot of people gathered in the square in front of the castle yelling. They look rich. They’re holding torches and trunks and fancy fur cloaks and fancy medieval dresses and expensive knickknacks but they’re not being let into the castle. Begging for sanctuary perhaps? They look pitiful. Talya pops to the top of the battlements and down again into a courtyard behind the castle walls.

Here, the battle seems very far away. She cannot even see the fire burning on the river, only the sickly green ambience above lightening the sky like an apocalyptic display of the Northern Lights. The castle has a frantic sort of quiet, the quiet of fear, like no one wants to make a sound. There are women singing somewhere in the castle but they are also crying. These must be noblewomen. Poor women wouldn’t cry so hysterically.

The singing leads her to a seven-sided building. A sept, these people call it, where they worship their seven-gods-as-one, with stained-glass seven-point stars in the crystal windows. There are guards crawling all over this part of the castle. Every noblewomen in the city must be in there, even the brotherfucking queen.

Even Talya’s magic has its limits. To sneak into a closed room and leave with two people completely unnoticed is outside of her realm of impossibility. She will have to wait and find another way.

Noblewomen sleep don’t they? Even during war? She’ll have to find her room. Chambers or whatever.

Talya backtracks into the winding corridors of the castle. There are locked doors everywhere but none that require more than a simple unlocking spell to show their secrets. She pulls out the small leather bag she stole from Dragonstone and internally expanded with magic and begins her treasure hunt.

She only takes jewelry and gold coins in the rooms she enters. She doesn’t feel guilty about it. She has to finance her stay in Westeros somehow and these are the nobility. The wealthy are extremely wealthy. The poor are poorer than dirt.

Talya is no stranger to stealing anyway. She’s been doing it ever since she learned a proper cloaking spell, since everyone started wearing makeup and caring about eyebrows and brands. A quarter of the things she owns she hasn't actually bought. She has quite the little makeup collection but has actually bought makeup maybe twice in her entire life. She can’t even remember.

In the sixth room she enters, she finds the jewelry box in a room off to the side, completely dedicated as a closet. The box is deep, heavy oak with colorful painted panels of dancers, with gold filigree and gilded edges. She pops it open and sticks her hand in blindly, realizing too late that the reflection of light is too bright.

Her hand _burns_ , worse than scalding hot water, worse than fire. It’s a deep, alchemical pain in her cursed blood. Her hand smokes and stings and the silver leaves blistering lines of red on her palm, like it’s melted into her flesh.

Hissing, she drops the box to the floor and grabs and empty bowl from the vanity, filling it with water with a silent spell. She buries her hand in the water and sighs at the relief. Magical water is always freezing cold, as if it’s been conjured right from a glacier. It probably has as far as she knows.

So silver still burns. She had almost thought she was completely rid of the curse on the night of the full moon when all she had felt was a deep bone-tingling excitement. She had snuck into the lowest of the dungeons and compelled the guards to move elsewhere, warding a small cell to the high heavens.

The transformation had been painless and when she longed for humanity again after some few hours, she had simply changed back with a quaking shiver. It was seamless, effortless. The beast within her could not ever be called calm but it was settled and her mistress, the moon, was a gentle tether. Her moonstone and opal rings meant to channel and balance her two natures were practically useless now. Still, she wore them around her neck, the rings a comforting warmth at the base of her sternum.

It was everything she had ever wished for. A gift from whatever foul powers brought her here to keep her happy. A hefty payment in blood money. The gods were giving her a generous deal: she could be grateful for this ease of living in this new, brutal world or she could be bitter and long to return to her home. Return to monthly suffering for the rest of her painful life, however long she lived, or stay here and do their work with the small measure of peace she had always desired.

Talya pushes the thoughts from her mind again, just like she did the last full moon. It didn’t do anybody any good to think too much about it. She would still be stuck here and the gods might hear and take away their gift if they sensed her ungrateful.

Talya rips a piece of bedding and soaks it in the icy water, wrapping it loosely around her blistered hand. Quickly she moves onto the next set of chambers, watching more closely for any glint of silver.

It takes a long while to run into a maid but by then her leather purse feels like it has some weight, which means she has quite the loot in her magical infinite bag.

The maid is wearing a plain beige dress, her hair hidden under a white cap. She looks utterly terrified to bump right into Talya. Talya quickly makes herself visible, holding one finger to her lips as she stares down at the girl. The girl nods shakily.

“Take me to Stark girls’ rooms.” She whispers. The maid blanches.

“I-I,” she begins to stutter. Talya smiles and gives the girl five gold coins.

“You don’t have to say a single word. Just take me there. Can you do that?” she asks gently.

The maid stares at the coins for a moment and then nods, slipping the coins into a pocket inside her dress.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” she tells her, settling one hand on the maids shoulder and making herself invisible behind her. “Show me the way.”

It all feels too easy but she’s certainly not going to ask that it becomes harder. This whole plan is impulsive beyond belief already. If she thinks too much she’ll lose valuable moments and then possibly miss her chance completely.

The maid leads her all the way to the other side of the castle. She stiffens every time they pass a guard but they pay no notice to them, and then her hearts pounds even louder. It takes a soft nudge to get her feet moving again. They climbed up three flights of stairs and into a dark corridor. The maid stopped in front of a door and Talya stared at her for a long moment, then pressed her ear to the door.

Inside, she could hear two heartbeats, both quick but one rabbiting of fear, the other pounding of something else. And then she hears a man.

“ _Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life,_ ” the man demands in a rough, gravelly slur. Drunk, of course.

The girl sings. Her voice is high and cracking all the way through, but she sings a short verse of what sounds like a hymn. “ _Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war…”_

Talya waits until the girl’s song is over and the man says his last word. “ _Little bird_ ,” he says roughly. Emotional, of course. A crying drunk, not that Talya’s in any place to judge. She’s an emotional drunk too if given the right motivation.

Something tears and then his heavy footsteps are coming towards the door. Talya puts her hand firmly over the maid’s mouth and moves them out of the way.

The man that exits is undeniably a brute. Of course. He’s gigantic and reeks of wine and sweat and blood and fire. His hair is greasy, his armor and clothes covered in gore, there’s a massive sword at his side, and his face is gruesome, burned black and craterous and cracked, oozing red ichor. She can see _bone_. She gags silently and stares ahead at the wall.

Jesus Christ…what a fucking terror. And she thought her own face was ruined.

The brute pauses for a long moment but continues on his way, door slamming behind him. She waits until he has gone from the corridor completely before letting the maid go.

“Who was that man?” Talya demands, grabbing the girl by the shoulders.

“The H-hound. He’s m-meant to be f-fightin’. The battle m-must be lo-st!” she sobs.

“Be quiet.” She jerks the girl. “Where is the other one?”

“The other one?”

“The Lannisters have two Stark girls hostage. Where is the other girl, Arya Stark?”

“She’s missing! No one’s seen her since her father became a traitor.”

“Fucking, damn it,” she hisses. “Fine then.” She pulls her into the room the Hound, whatever the fuck he is, just exited.

On the floor on the other side of the bed was the small lump of a girl wrapped in a bloodied, singed white cloak. Even in the darkness, Talya could see she had bright red hair, just like Maester Pylos had said when he described her.

Slowly, Talya creeps over to the girl’s huddled form.

“Sansa?” she said in her softest, gentlest tone.

The girl jerks awake, whipping off the stained cloak. She’s a pretty little thing, even with red-rimmed eyes, with vibrant red hair and bright blue eyes but she’s terrified. Poor girl. Talya knows it's her, it has to be Sansa Stark. Her stomach is fluttering and her head is light.

It's a Stark. This is what she has to do. The gods told her so.

Talya pressed ten more coins into the maid's hand and confunded her for her troubles. The girl left in a daze. She would remember none of this night clearly now and would have fifteen gold coins because of it. Hopefully she would keep her new wealth to herself, however much it was worth.

Talya bends down in front of the girl, looking her in the eyes, hands splayed in front of her.

“My name is Talya.” she offers kindly.

“Who—where—”

“I’m here to take you north, to your brother Robb Stark.”

Sansa Stark gasps and flinches away, crawling to her feet. “My brother is a traitor. I would not go with you, I am loyal to my beloved King Joffrey.”

Talya sighs and stands up, her left knee creaking. The girl is tall, only three inches shorter than herself, but thin and willowy and delicate looking, like a doll.

“I know they’re keeping you hostage here.”

“You…you’re not a Northerner.” Sansa says. The look in her eyes is desperate.

“I’m not a Northerner,” she agrees, “but I am going north. I…have business with the Starks and I'm going to take you with me. To your family.”

Sansa shakes her head vehemently. “Bad business,” she mutters, retreating from Talya. “My family are traitors. I am loyal to—”

“I am not asking if you want to go.” Talya snaps lowly. “I am telling you. Think of it as a courtesy. Are you going to do me the courtesy of coming along or will I have to forget my manners?”


	6. twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is rescued or kidnapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am ALL FOR the strong, empowered, politically astute sansa we all know and love but uhhhh before she was all that she was kind of an idiot and thats where she is at this point in canon and i want to be true to that. sansa is scared and emotional and confused so she's gonna be all over the place a lil bit for the next couple of chapters.  
> also there wont be any femslash in this. sansa is hella underage and idk if i even want talya with anyone she's kind of a raging bitch

“Please, my lady. Please, it is my father’s sword, my family’s ancestral sword. My brother will reward you handsomely if you were to bring it back to him.” Sansa begged the woman.

Sansa could technically call the woman her rescuer but she was not completely rescued yet. they were still inside her chambers in the Red Keep. The woman stood in the middle of Sansa’s room with her arms crossed over her chest, in black breeches Sansa hadn’t seen a girl in breeches since she last saw Arya.

“He’s already going to reward me. I’m bringing you.” the woman said flatly in her strange accent. “I think you’re worth a bit more than a sword.”

 _I’m not_ , Sansa thought to herself. If she was then maybe Robb would have rescued her already. But she felt brave in that moment and sat defiantly on her bed.

“Then I cannot go with you. I cannot leave without my father’s sword.” She said, crossing her arms stubbornly.

The woman stared at her impassively. Her eyes were uncannily silver and Sansa shivered. Then she sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Where is it?” she asked and Sansa described Ser Ilyn as vividly as she could, exactly where she had last seen him by the sept.

“Stay here,” the woman commanded. What had she said her name was? Talya? She couldn’t remember. “Put on your warmest clothes and boots. If another man comes into this room, wait until he’s close to you and then use this,” the woman handed her a sharp dagger, looking Sansa deep in her eyes. Her stare was unwavering.

“Right in his neck. Pull it out and then do it again.”

Sansa paled, holding the dagger loosely. “N-no, I couldn’t. I can’t. It’s…”

“It would save your life.”

It wasn’t proper, she wanted to say. Ladies didn’t carry daggers or kill men. She wouldn’t be able to do it and then she would die in the process. Then she would never get home.

But she wouldn’t be in King’s Landing anymore.

Sansa quieted and gripped the dagger. She nodded once and the woman disappeared out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

Sansa did as she said. She changed into her warmest, plainest dress and cloak and hid in the corner. She imagined it was where the Hound had been hiding when she first entered her room. That was only minutes ago, wasn’t it? Just minutes ago, he had tried to take her away from here, had held a knife to her throat and forced her to sing and disappeared.

Would she ever see him again? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. She clutched his white cloak anyway, wrapping it around her shoulders under her proper cloak.

The sky lightened from emerald and jade to dark, smoky purple of dawn and flaming orange and red. The Blackwater was still burning and dawn was here. The battle must be over by now.

Likely, her rescuer had been killed.

Sansa should have known better. She was never leaving this place.

The door burst open and Ser Dontos staggered into her chambers, whooping incoherently. He spun around and around until his eyes alighted on her crouched from in the corner and he swooped down on her, lifting her up with his flabby arms.

“The city is saved! We’re delivered sweetling!” he giggled incandescently, spinning her around. She struggled against his hold.

“Put me down!” she shouted.

Ser Dontos put her down and put his ham hands on her shoulders. She faced the door, still clutching her knife. The woman had told her to stab the next man who came into the room and Ser Dontos was close enough, but she didn’t think she could put it inside him. His skin was so thick with fat and he was much larger than her. Would the dagger even go through him?

He had tried to help her before…maybe he could help them now and finally he would be redeemed and be properly knightly, helping two maids escape this cursed city. He didn’t deserve death.

“What is this you’re holding, Jonquil?”

She quickly hid the dagger behind her back. “Nothing, my Florian. Tell me what’s happened.”

He wrestled it from her hands and stared at the dagger and then at her in shock.

“My lady…where did you get this?  You should not carry a weapon. You could harm yourself.”

In the doorway, a shadow stepped into view, the tall outline of a woman holding a greatsword and another at her waist. Sansa’s eyes widened and her chest filled with dread, not hope. Her rescuer had returned and with Father’s sword. She was saved but she had not done as the woman asked.

Ser Dontos followed her gaze and let out a fearful shout, shoving Sansa behind himself. She fell to the floor and her view was obscured by his large body. But she heard the woman’s footsteps and the draw of steel and Ser Dontos’ gurgling shout.

The sword burst out of his back, red with blood. Even underneath the red, she could see it was Valyrian steel. Some of it splattered onto her face. It was hot.

The sword retreated and he fell to the floor with a violent twitch. The woman wiped Ice clean on his doublet and then stepped over his body, placing the sword back in its scabbard and picking up her dagger that Ser Dontos had dropped. Her unbandaged hand was stained with red and she had a deep scowl on her face.

“The man who had this is dead now.” She snapped, holding out the Valyrian steel angrily. “I won’t be the one carrying it.”

Sansa cried.

Ser Ilyn was dead. He was dead. He was _dead._ Ser Dontos was dead. The Blackwater was burning. The Hound was gone. Everything was different now.

The woman wrapped her arms around her and Sansa was suddenly being spun and twisted and squeezed and stretched. Screeching wind whipped all around her and the world became shifting, hissing, swirling light. Then it stopped suddenly and Sansa was on solid ground again. She lurched forward and the woman pulled Sansa’s hair away from her face as she vomited.

They were outside of the castle now, somehow. She could see the outline of the Red Keep in the distance and behind that, the burning aurora of the battle. They were in a copse of trees beside one of the roads leading to the city, maybe the Dragon Gate since she could see the shadow of the ruin of the Dragonpit not very far away.

How had they moved so quickly? Was that what all that wind was? Had she moved them from her chambers in the keep all the way out of the gates of the city?

Impossible. It couldn’t be. This was…this could not be real. Sansa was only dreaming. When she woke, she would still be in her chambers under the Hound’s cloak, waiting for Ser Dontos or someone, anyone, to tell her news of the battle. She was still a hostage in the Red Keep. Ser Ilyn was still alive. Maybe he would find her and kill her himself, just like he had killed Father, with the queen and Joffrey to watch with their terrible, cruel smiles.

But she had seen Ser Dontos die. This woman, her rescuer, had killed him with Ice. Father’s sword made Sansa’s back ache and her shoulders hunch. It was heavy and almost as tall as her and she knew Queen Cersei or Joffrey would never let her near it or Ser Ilyn let it out of his sight.

Sansa fell to her knees next to her sick and cried. Her sick was real and smelled terribly. The ground was cold underneath her. It all felt real but it could not be.

“Get up.” The woman told her.

Sansa hugged her knees tighter. She was never going to escape.

Her rescuer wrapped a hand around Sansa’s bicep and jerked her up. “Get up! I’m sorry but we don’t have time for hysterics.” She had a mean scar on one side of her face and bright, swirling, molten quicksilver eyes.

It was the eyes that were the worst. They were eerie against her skin, sharp and heavy, and Sansa only wanted to look away but she could not.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. Her rescuer—kidnapper—reminded her of the Hound though.

She had not wanted to go with him when he offered but now she was out of the castle and the city and she wished he was here. She knew the Hound would never hurt her. He had…they had kissed. She would not have gone with him but at least she knew him. He was _almost_ a knight. She clutched his cloak tighter around her.

This woman was completely unknown. She could be anyone.

She could be _lying_.

“Here,” the woman reached into a large pack she had on her back—why didn’t Sansa notice it before? It was so strange, not leather but cloth and dark hunter green—and pulled out a pale blue cylinder, with liquid inside. Was it colored glass? “Drink some water. We’re going to do that again so be prepared. It’s okay if you get sick just don’t throw up on me.”

Sansa took it hesitantly. The bottle was harder than glass but not as heavy. Still, she unscrewed the odd top and drank greedily. The water was freezing cold but soothed her stinging throat and calmed her slightly. It was good water too, crisp and fresh. She was glad it wasn’t wine.

“Forgive me, my lady,” it seemed safe to call her ‘my lady.’ No one ever reacted aversely to the honorific. “What do I call you?”

“Talya.”

“T-thank you, Lady Talya _._ ” She repeated, pronouncing the name carefully. The woman’s accent was hard to pinpoint.

“Hold on tight.”

Sansa hesitantly took her arm and Talya tightened their grip until they were flush against each other. Then, they were twisting again.

 

 

When they stopped, they were in a village along the Kingsroad. Sansa remembered it from when she first arrived at King’s Landing but she could not recall its name. It was a day and a half’s ride from the city and they had made it in mere minutes. The air was clean and fresh and pure. When she looked behind her, the sky was still a burning aurora of green and red and orange.

She was out of King’s Landing.

She was safe.

Sansa threw her arms around Lady Talya and cried into her bosom. Talya stiffened but then patted her back gently.

It was nothing like Mother’s hugs. Talya was thinner and harder but she felt kind.

The last time someone had been kind to her was…she couldn’t remember. All the kindness in King’s Landing was false. Ser Dontos was a drunken fool that slobbered on her, the Hound was a drunken brute that put a knife to her throat, the Imp was a drunken imp but he wasn’t…terrible. For a _Lannister_. All of them made her uncomfortable.

She felt guilty for a moment, thinking about the Hound. He _was_ a drunken brute but he had tried to rescue her. He _had_ rescued her during the riots. He had stopped her from pushing Joffrey off the Traitor’s Walk and covered her when she had been beaten and almost stripped. He wasn’t all terrible.

But Lady Talya was kind at least. Much kinder than the Hound would ever be.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” she whispered fiercely. “Thank you!”

Lady Talya huffed amusedly. “Put on your hood and cover your hair. I’ll try to find us a place or something.”

“I know an inn here, my lady.”

Talya swept her hand gracefully in front of her. “Lead the way, young one.”

Sansa led her rescuer to the inn of the village. Bindwood, she remembered the name. Or Brindlewood? No, Bindwood. The inn felt smaller and larger than she remembered, less crowded but not nearly as exciting. It was just an inn. The men inside weren’t knights or lords but merchants and smallfolk. They looked especially drunk and worried. It was the battle. It could not be seen or heard from here but it couldn’t be good news to see the sky above king’s landing turn that sickly shade of green and the red and orange of flames and the great clouds of smoke above gathering above.

No one paid their arrival any mind. Not even a glance at the door. It struck no one as odd that two women were traveling alone, one of them with a sword on her back nearly as tall as her, the other with a sword on her waist. When Lady Talya tapped on a tavern wench’s shoulder, the girl startled even though she had been looking in their direction.

“I’d like a room.” She said kindly. The wench stared at her confusedly for a moment and then nodded hesitantly.

“I’ll…I’ll show you to your room, milady.” The wench said nervously.

Why was she so nervous? What did Lady Talya do? She did not even have a hood over her head. Her dark curls were pulled tight into four thick braids close to her scalp. She had never seen the style before but it was pretty, even if it highlighted how vast the scar on her cheek was. Surely Lady Talya was not so fearful to look upon as the Hound?

They were brought to a small room on the second floor of the inn with a single bed and a small window. Talya gave the woman a gold dragon and told her to bring up two dinners and the wench did so silently.

Sansa was used to being ignored but never so completely. It was like she was invisible. The wench had not even glanced at her when Talya asked for two dinners. She had only blinked, like she was in a daze, and then done it.

Sansa ate her warm supper on the bed, plate balanced atop her lap and watched her rescuer as she swept around the room. She was pacing in front of the door and tracing the panes of it, chanting in a low, melodic voice but Sansa could not make out the words. She was…what was she doing?

The air was cooling and there was a sharp, unnatural scent Sansa could taste in the back of her throat, purer and cleaner than salt and water. Lady Talya’s hands were not glowing but where she moved them they left an afterglow, like rays of sunlight filtering through drapes, even her bandaged hand. Sansa gasped loudly.

She was doing _magic_! She was casting a spell!

She was a witch.

Sansa’s heart thudded and there was a rushing in her ears.

She had not been rescued, she had been stolen. This witch was going to sacrifice her, a young maiden, for whatever foul magic she had used to get them here. She would drink her blood or bathe in it. She would steal Father’s sword and—

Father’s sword!

Sansa had not been brave when Father had been murdered. She had been only afraid. She had sobbed and screeched and fainted. She couldn’t properly fight against the Kingsguard that held her in place that day, nor could she fight them any other time. She couldn’t even fight off the peasants that had taken her during the riot. She wasn’t like Arya who would fight with every breathe she took, wherever she was. She was proper and ladylike and not even a lady’s courtesies could protect her sometimes.

But she had Father’s sword, the ancient Valyrian steel sword of the Starks. She could be brave now. She could be a true Stark. She wouldn’t let a witch sacrifice her. She was Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, blood of the ancient First Men. She wasn’t a little bird or a dove or a silly lady. She was of the North. She was a direwolf.

Sansa quietly set her supper down on the bed and tiptoed to the wall where Ice was propped up, behind and out of the sight of the witch. She laid it gently on the floor and eased it out of the scabbard to prevent any noise. It took all her strength and then some to lift it to her waist.

Stabbing someone in the back was not honorable, it was only cowardly but Father had died for his honor. She would avenge him and avenge Arya. She wouldn’t make his mistakes.

She let out a ferocious howl and ran towards the witch that would sacrifice her. She was not going to go easy. Not this time.

 

Sansa was tied to a chair and the ropes were so tight it hurt to attempt to move. The witch had gagged her as well but Sansa still made noise. She was crying again.

The witch had moved so _fast._

She stepped out of the way of Ice and kicked the sword out of Sansa’s failing grip. Her wrist ached fiercely whenever she tried to move her hand. Then the witch had shoved her into the chair and made ropes out of air and tied her to it. Now she could not move on pain of death. She cried through the gag and when she hiccoughed it felt like she would suffocate.

The witch did nothing. She sat on the bed across from her, staring at Sansa with her blank, heavy eyes and vicious scar and Sansa wept harder. She was going to die now. She could see it in her eyes, oh what terrible eyes! She was sick with dread.

The scarred woman stood and came over to Sansa, crouching in front of the chair.

“If I take out that gag, are you going to start screaming?” she asked simply. Sansa cried but shook her head. She wouldn’t scream. She wouldn’t make another sound.

The woman’s gaze bored deeper into her. “Are you lying?”

Sansa shook her head again.

“I don’t have a forgettable look, Sansa. If you start screaming you’ll draw attention to us.” She warned gravely. “Can I expect calm and rational behavior from you?”

She nodded. The witch sighed and ungagged her.

Sansa sucked in giant, shuddering breaths. The woman sat on the bed again, her fine boots flat on the floor. She sat like a man, with her legs wide and her hands braced on her knees and stared at Sansa. All the woman did was stare at her! Sansa hated looking at her; her bright eyes, her vicious face. She never wanted to look at her again.

“Why did you try to run me through with a sword, Sansa?”

Sansa did not dare speak. She did not think the woman was really asking her. She would probably punish her no matter what she said and she wasn’t a king or queen to command her. The witch softened the curl of her mouth

She gulped, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re a witch.” she said frightfully.

Talya nodded. “I am a witch. How did you think I got us out of King’s Landing?”

“I…it was all very confusing.” Sansa admitted. “But—”

“These are confusing times,” she said sympathetically, “I don’t fault you for acting rashly. Trying to kill me, however, was not good judgement.” Sansa blanched at the hardening of her tone. “Killing me would have just led to you being stuck here completely alone without money, food or even a horse. That’s just stupid. That’s lacking common sense.”

She _was_ stupid. She’s always going to be a stupid, dumb bird. She couldn’t even chirp at this witch, she didn’t know what she wanted to hear.

Talya gave her a pitiful frown. “It’s fine, Sansa. I’m not angry. I know you’re scared and I’m sorry for scaring you,” she said kindly, touching her heart. “But I have things I need to do in Westeros and helping you helps me. Can we come to an agreement?”

The way the witch spoke to her confused Sansa. It didn’t feel like it did in Kings Landing with everyone talking down to her. The dark woman looked her in the eye and spoke genuinely, like they were equals, like Sansa was as old as she was. It was nice but it was mostly confusing. Was she supposed to answer? Was she supposed to talk back and argue? Talya still didn’t seem like she wanted an argument and Sansa didn’t think she would win one with the witch. She had Sansa tied up and she had _magic_ , something long dead in the world. Only the gods knew what she was capable of.

“You’re a _witch_ ,” Sansa croaked.

Talya laughed a low, attractive chuckle. “Did you think I was going to ritual sacrifice you or something?” She joked and Sansa flushed in embarrassment. Was she truly so transparent?

“Oh, Sansa,” she chuckled. “That’s not how my magic works. No sacrifice necessary with me, okay?”

“But you _are_ a witch.”

Talya scowled and Sansa knew she had instantly said the wrong thing.

“If you continue to have a problem with my being a witch, you’re going to keep it to yourself. Are we clear?” she told her in a steely voice.

Sansa’s eyes filled with tears but she nodded. Talya nodded back and waved a hand gracefully at her seated form. The ropes fell off and Sansa sighed in relief, rubbing the feeling back into her wrists and rolling her ankles.

Her freedom was short lived. Talya guided her to bed and retied her hands, albeit looser this time and in front of her.

“Wait—”

“I can’t trust that you won’t try to kill me again. Go to sleep, we’ll be leaving early in the morning.”

And the witch tucked her into bed. Her hands were strong but gentle and she must have cast some sort of spell because the thin mattress was soft as down and as warm as proper Northern furs. Sansa tried to fight her heavy eyes but the quiet of the witch’s breathing lulled her to sleep.

She dreamed vividly of Robb running towards her, bearded and victorious.


	7. dreamers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is getting a good night's rest in Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> l o l, it has been a sexy little minute since i updated so im really sorry about that. i've mostly caught up to everything i wrote before i started posting it so its gonna slow down a lot buutttttt its getting colder and that means seasonal depression baby! im a creative melancholy kind of person ya feel? definitely not giving up.
> 
> this picks up EXACTLY where it ended in the last chapter bc we doing a muhfukn DREAM SEQUENCE babes! sorry if this sucks pls lmk if i have any grammar errors 3 ;)))

 

* * *

Robb was dreaming of Grey Wind again. He knew because he was low and the ground was cold and damp under his paws. He could hear the distant hoots of owls and the chirping of crickets and the quick rushing of the rivers and it sounded like music. He could smell the sap of the heart tree, its face weeping fresh rivulets of bloody red.

Grey Wind approached the tree and pressed his nose against the gods' face. Robb fell out of his dream.

Talya is dreaming. It's dark and neon and the music is the beat in her heart and everybody is moving to her rhythm. She feels beautiful.

There is her older brother Augustin, jumping in and out of sight with her best friend Neja. There is her first boyfriend, Alan, but he's long dead so she knows she is truly dreaming. And there is her second dead boyfriend, Dev, older and gaunt but still handsome. Alan and Dev are spinning around her, twirling her between them but it doesn't feel like a ghoulish trick, just like fun. She's with all the people she loves and they're finally together and they're dancing. She loves dancing.

But there's yelling and scattering and terror. There's a wolf in the club! A giant, black wolf with glowing red eyes. Alan and Dev dissipate and Augustin and Neja have to hide. And there's a giant white tree growing in the middle of the dancefloor, right under her feet and it's carrying her up up up and breaking through the ceiling.

Oh no. The moon is full. Her mistress is calling her, has  _been_ calling her, and she's late. She has to  _go_.

Augustin is yelling at her and climbing up the tree. He pulls her down and they run to the train station. They have to get to the factory but they're running out of time! They swipe into the train and run up the steps but when she gets up to the platform she is completely alone. Augustin has gone. The moon is so full and the city is so quiet and the train is pulling away from the station. She's too late.

But she isn't changing. She can't feel her mistress as strongly anymore. It doesn't feel free.

She runs back and forth along the platform stretching endlessly and runs into Sansa Stark, equally frantic.

How is she here? How did she get in her dream?

"Robb?" Sansa yells, "Robb!"

"SANSA!" a man booms back from behind them.

The sky was black and the moon was full and the horizon was cluttered with tall, unnatural peaks that rose up above him and scraped the sky. They twinkled with stars in every possible color; red, blue, yellow, white and purple, pink and green blinking in the peaks, below the peaks, on the ground far below him where they zoomed back and forth on sleek metal carriages, stopping and starting to a smooth rhythm Robb could not hear, as far as the eye could see.

The corridor began to rumble. The rumble grew and grew, until it roared and rattled his bones.

A giant, steel beast was charging towards him on those metal tracks, shaking the very stone he stood on, faster than he had ever seen anything move, as loud as a Dothraki horde. It created a fierce, hot stale wind that suffocated him and blew his hair back. He ducked and shielded his head but the beast paid him no mind and barreled on, until the rumbling calmed and the city was silent again.

His heart pounded fiercely, jarring his body with every beat. What  _was_  that? What was this place?

"Robb?" he heard on the breeze. A high, affected voice he thought he would never hear again.

His sweet sister.

Sansa.

"Robb!"

Sansa was running towards him, her hair a bright crimson banner behind her, her eyes as bright as the twinkling blue stars around him. Robb pumped his legs towards her but the space between them stretched endlessly.

"SANSA!"

There was a woman in black in the way. She put her hands on Sansa's shoulders to keep her still and Robb ran even faster. He was gaining now but Sansa was fighting the woman. He could see the fear in her eyes.

Then she simply faded, as if she had never been there at all.

Robb barreled into the dark woman, unable to slow down. She stumbled but bent her knees and pushed back on Robb.

"What the fuck—"

"Bring her back!" He roared in her face. One side of her brown face was ruined.

She had been mauled by some beast. By a wolf.

He took her roughly by the shoulders. "Where did she go? Where is Sansa?"

It did not feel like he was still dreaming. He  _heard_  Sansa calling out to him and felt her fear in his blood. When he bumped into this dark, marred woman he had felt her, solid and warm in front of him. He could even smell a perfume, something sharp and sweet.

It was not fair that even in his dream, he could not get to his sister.

The woman recoild in disgust.

" _Dreamwalker_ ," she hissed.

"Where is she?!"

"Leave the way you came," she threatened, pointing at him fiercely. Robb burned with anger.

"What did you do with her?"

The woman was fast. She kicked him in the stomach with a long, powerful leg and Robb bent over, fighting the violent twisting urge to vomit his guts out. Then he felt hot, strong hands on his shoulders and he was falling.

The young man falls out of her dream. Whatever brought him, whoever, however…

Talya just hopes he is not who she suspects he may be.

She smooths out her dress and boards the next train. It takes her a long way but the time passes in the slow blink of an eye. The city shrinks into suburbia and then woodlands. She traverses over a great lake, to an island, full of white trees and red leaves. In the distance, directly north is a black mountain.

But it's not a mountain. It is a castle. The burned black ruins of an impossibly massive castle. It casts a shadow in the valley and carves jagged through the clouds, taller than skyscraper she could ever imagine. Even from miles away, it feels like it is haunted.

She slips off her shoes and walks further inland, her toes sinking into the damp ground.

There are weirwoods everywhere, every one of them with an eerie, moaning face. The train tracks have disappeared and the opposite shore of the lake is too far to swim. She's stuck here. The only way out must be through.

She feels watched. It's making her hackles rise and her stomach twist. These weirwoods have a presence, stronger than the one she saw when she was being summoned here. Their eyes are weeping as they follow her. The bark is creaking. The wind is blowing and the leaves are singing.

They are saying her name.

_Talya._

The voice is not a voice, but a feeling.

The pull she feels to go deeper is gentler than the one that summoned her to Westeros but forceful all the same. It's pulling her skin tight and pressing deep on her skull. Her heartbeat is jarring and liable to burst out of her chest.

The beast always wants to go forward. It likes stepping deep into somewhere dark and uncharted. It craves the disorientation. It wants to crawl through the undergrowth blind. It doesn't even care about getting out.

She doesn't want to go forward. She wants to turn back. She always wants to go back.

In all his dreams, he'd always awake when he fell. Not in this one.

Robb fell for an eternity, his guts twisting and flipping inside of him. He wished he could fly. He wanted to fly, he didn't want to fall.

Why couldn't he just dream of Jeyne?

He landed on the ground with such a sick, foul crunch that he couldn't stop himself from being sick, but when he rolled over onto hands and knees nothing came out and he realized he could move without pain.

He thought of Bran. Bran was not nearly so lucky.

If only this past year was all a terrible dream. He would wake tomorrow morning in Winterfell and hug his brothers and sisters with affection. Sansa would preen and the others would revile it but he wouldn't care. He would hug Jon, because Jon wouldn't have left. He would listen to his mother, because he never knew she spoke so wisely before. He would learn at his father's feet for as long as he possibly could, like it was meant to be. He just wanted to go home again.

When he stood, he thought he saw the witch in front of him, tall and dark and jagged, but she disappeared into the trees, the wind sweeping her away like a dry leaf. Then he was alone again.

He could not even see the opposite shore in the darkness but here, the weirwoods surrounding him seemed to absorb the light of the moon. They glowed in the dark, their fresh bloody tears glistening. All the weirwoods were heart trees. Every single one of them had a face.

The Isle of Faces.

What foul magic had that woman done to get him  _here_?

Robb wandered further into the wood. The only way out must have been to go through. Perhaps he would find a ferry boat on the other side of the isle. It was like going to the godswood in Winterfell. The quiet of the night settled into serene silence. The back of his neck prickled as he crossed under a weirwood's canopy and he knew he was in sight of the gods once again. The bark creaked at their haunted eyes followed him. The wind blew and the canopy whistled with their song.

They were saying his name.

_Robb_.

The voice was not a voice, but a feeling.

_**…** _

**_.._ **

**_._ **

_You must come,_ it told the dreamers.

Distantly, a raven watched.


	8. plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Talya have a chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this one is also trash i just need to move the plot rn ;)

 

* * *

Talya wakes with a chill, curled up into a tiny aching ball under the bunched thin blanket. Her eyes are wet; she's been crying in her sleep because she was trapped on the wretched island of a thousand trees and grim faces, all of them staring at her, all of them whispering her name.

_You must come_.

She wants to go home. If this is all a cruel lesson to teach her to value what she has in life, then she's learned it. She'll never be bitter again. She'll never complain or regret. She just wants to go home. She wants to see her mother and father, her brother and grandmother. She would rather break every single bone in her body twice every month for the rest of her life than stay in this medieval hell a second longer. She wants to go  _home_.

The enchanted pile of blankets are itchy under her face and her silver-burned hand is stinging. When she sits up, Sansa Stark is staring at her warily, fiddling with the infinite rope around her wrists. Talya wipes the dampness from her eyes and rises to her feet, her joints cracking with movement. Sansa cringes at the sound.

_The girl stares too much_ , Talya thinks. She used to crave that cursory attention of strangers gazing at her. Now she hates it. She's hated it since she was cursed. It's why her illusioning spells are so good. She's practiced.

"Stop that," she rumbles and Sansa's eyes flit away again.

They leave the inn at Brindlewood late in the morning. The mood is high from all the patrons: news has reached them that Stannis Baratheon was defeated, his fleet burned and smashed on the Blackwater and the Tyrells swooping in at the last moment to clean up the stragglers. The Lannisters still hold King's Landing and the king fought valiantly protecting the city. Long live the king. Long live the Lannisters.

Sansa turns white under her hood. Talya quickly pulls her out of the inn. They disappear in a trick of the light.

Ivy Inn is almost two hundred miles away from King's Landing, a week's ride if she's done the proper math. She strolls into the short wooden house with Sansa's arm tucked neatly into her own and no one even blinks at the two women alone in wartime.

It all feels too easy. Everything in Westeros feels easy. Maybe it's another gift. She hasn't felt this invincible since she was sixteen, just before everything in her life descended into secret chaos. Only recently did everything settle into a spooky routine of school and work. Now she's thrust into this medieval nonsense.

What was the horrible thing her past incarnation did to deserve this? She wants to know. She hopes it was  _bad._ Bringing about the apocalypse bad and even worse. It better have been a  _close_  fucking call.

She's been in Westeros for a little more than a month. Is time moving the same here as it does on Earth? It feels the same, though the stars are completely different. There is no little or big dipper, no zodiac or North Star but the sun sets and the moon rises in the same amount of time. It waxes and wanes and calls to her just as it would anywhere on Earth. Here, though, her shackles are slackened.

How long are they going to keep her here? What is poor Augustin telling everyone she knows?

He would have to tell her friends, their friends, that she was gone, missing, and they would not know where to look for her. They could still be looking for her now. It had been broad daylight in the middle of their block when she went missing. What if someone noticed? What would they do to witches in the 21st century?

How is she ever supposed to get home? He would have to tell Grandma she had been ripped out of his arms by powers he could not see. What if the stress of it killed Grandma? These are powers none have ever heard of, will ever hear of. How are they supposed to call her back from  _these_ gods?

Talya glances at Sansa sitting dejectedly on the small bad. The teenager isn't home either. Her home is a ruin, her family ripped apart, her country torn by war, she's been a hostage of her family's greatest enemy.

Talya locks the room behind her and returns with two lemon pastries from the baker in the village. They're warm and fragrant and bright. Wordlessly, she hands one to the girl.

Sansa bursts into tears.

"I love lemon cakes," she cries as she bites into the pastry. Sansa wipes her tears face as she devours the lemon treat.

Talya is supremely uncomfortable.

"Thank you, Lady Talya."

"It's fine." She says, watching awkwardly as the girl washes down the cake with some water and calms herself. She gives the girl her piece of cake. Watching a teenage girl sob while eating cake ruins her appetite. Sansa eats her second piece of cake more leisurely.

Sansa looks like the dreamwalker from last night. They have the same nose and chin and the eyes and hair are undeniable. Sansa only has one brother older than her and she called that boy Robb, same as the king she's been hearing about.

Talya knows a sign when she sees one.  _They_ are telling her something, she just has to puzzle it out.

"Have you ever heard of an island of weirwoods, Sansa?" Talya asks quietly.

Sansa does not look up from her hands but her eyes widen. She hasn't truly looked Talya in the eye since the night before. "Weirwoods, my lady?"

"Yes, the ones with the faces." The creepy ones. Perhaps there are multiple kinds? Talya wouldn't be surprised. It's Westeros, of course there would be different species of haunted trees.

Sansa looks confused. "Heart trees? Do you follow the old gods, Lady Talya?"

"…We're associates," she shrugs.

Sansa looks at her strangely but her eyes flit away quickly. "There are no weirwoods in the South, my lady. Southroners have worshipped the Seven since the Andal invasions and cut down all the weirwoods. Only the North was able to fight them off, so we still follow the old gods and pray to the heart tree."

"Is that a different tree?"

"No, it is a weirwood with a carved face. It's how the gods can see." Her voice quiets and looks sadly at the greatsword by the wall. "My father would…" she trails off again, eyeing Talya warily.

Perhaps Talya was too stern with the girl last night. She doesn't want Sansa to be afraid of her, she just wants the girl to do as she's told.

"You can tell me. It's okay."

"He would sit for hours, thinking and praying in front of the heart tree in Winterfell. The heart tree in the Red Keep wasn't a true heart tree; only a great oak. I…I don't think the old gods could see there."

Talya softens her face. "I'm very sorry about your father, Sansa." She says kindly. She means it.

"They beheaded him in front of me." the girl's eyes are haunted. "With his own sword."

Talya thinks of her own father, tall and balding and greying, with a small paunch. He wears Speedos, to her eternal embarrassment. He believes  _Ancient Aliens_  and thinks the moon landing was faked. He always hugs her, even when she doesn't want him to because he loves her and he tells her all the time.

She imagines some men holding him down in front of her and cutting his head off and she blinks away prickling in her eyes.

Will she ever see her father again?

_(The worst part is that she can only think_  likely not.)

_"I'm so sorry," she says thickly._

Sansa curls in on herself tightly. Talya does not try to comfort the girl. She is only a stranger whose father still lives, albeit a world away, but she knows the grief of watching someone you love die. Talya gives her a piteous smile.

"Do you know where there are any weirwoods in the south?"

"No. The old gods aren't—" Sansa says adamantly.

"I had a dream last night of an island full of weirwoods and a burned, black mountain. But the mountain was actually a castle." Talya continues. "And I saw  _you_  there," she continues and Sansa gasps.

_Ah, she remembers seeing me. We were all in that dream together, I knew it._

Talya rests her forearms on her thighs and leans forward. "And I saw a boy who looked a lot like you. A brother perhaps?"

"I didn't—I didn't see him, I swear it! Not even in my dreams. My brother is a traitor and I—"

"Relax, Sansa. You're not in trouble for seeing your brother in a dream. I'm on your side, remember? I know he saw you too."

"It wasn't real, it was a dream. How can you know?"

Talya nods sagely. "I know. Do you know where that island of heart trees is, Sansa? I think we must be close. I saw it so clearly."

"Robb was there?"

_Who the hell even cares where he was?_

"He was. I saw him." she nods encouragingly.

Sansa's eyes snap to Talya and she straightens up like she was whipped. "Are you sure of it, Lady Talya?" she asks in a harder voice than she's ever heard from her.

_Are you lying to me?_  is what her eyes say. Talya is surprised. She didn't think the girl had it in her. What else can she say to convince her?

"There was a wolf there, too." Talya tells her. "With grey fur and yellow eyes, as tall as my chest."

Sansa gasps dramatically. " _Grey Wind_ ," Sansa whispers reverently, her eyes bright with fervor.

"Who is Grey Wind?"

"My brother's direwolf! We all had direwolves, even Jon. Mine was…mine was Lady. She was the sweetest and gentlest of the litter. I…Queen Cersei…"

Christ, what other terrible shit has happened to this girl?

"You don't have to tell me." Talya says gently. She doesn't want to get sidetracked again.

"Queen Cersei made Father kill Lady and it was my fault. I was so  _stupid_. I lied because I thought Joffrey would love me but I only got Lady killed. I got everyone killed!"

"Oh, Sansa," Talya crouches in front of the crying girl. "It's not your fault."

"It  _is!_  I told the king that I didn't remember and they killed Lady because I lied! I t-told Cer-ersei that Father was try-ing to ta-ke us a-way!" she hiccups hysterically, the words pouring out of her so fast she can barely understand her. "They killed Septa Mordane and all of the guards and my friend Jeyne and Arya and it's all my fault!"

…

_FUCK_.

They killed Arya Stark?!

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Talya was hoping they would conveniently run into the girl on the Kingsroad or something.

"It was  _me_  they should have executed.  _I_  betrayed Father and Arya and—"

Talya puts her hands on her narrow shoulders, looking her deep in the eyes. "Are you  _sure_  they killed your sister, Sansa?"

Sansa takes huge, ragged, gulping breaths. At first, Sansa was a pretty crier but now the novelty has worn off for Talya. She has a bright blue throbbing vein on the side of her throat that looks plain eerie against her milky skin and Talya can hardly move her eyes away from it.

"I don't know! She's been missing since before Father was arrested, I don't know where she is. They probably killed her."

They probably did. Damn it.

"Okay, Sansa, you have to calm down."

"It was my fault." Sansa cries.

"Shh," she coos, petting her bright hair. "I'm sure it wasn't your fault."

"I was so stupid."

"You are a child. Children are supposed to be stupid."

Children usually don't see their fathers beheaded though. What exactly did Sansa tell the queen to think it was her fault so absolutely? And if the queen killed her direwolf, the literal sigil of her house, why would she tell her anything anyway? How absurd, even for a child.

"I thought everything was going to be like in the stories."

Figures. Living in a castle, hearing all these stories about princesses and knights…Sansa must be truly naïve. Talya's grandmother told her all of the fairy tales but with the real endings, the sad ones where the prince dies and the princess becomes a spinster and the big bad wolf eats everyone it can fit into its maw. Now she's a bitter monster but at least no one can ever call her stupid.

"I'm sorry you had to learn in that way."

"Porcelain, ivory, steel," the girl mutters. It seems to calm her a bit, whatever the hell it means. Talya smiles at her encouragingly and the girl returns it with a determined gleam in her eye.

"You saw Grey Wind in your dream. That must mean he's coming. Robb is finally coming for me."

"On the island, Sansa. Where is it?"

"The Isle of Faces. It's in the middle of the Gods Eye, where the children of the forest signed a pact with the First Men to end the war between them ten thousand years ago. They carved a face into every weirwood so the gods could bear witness."

The Isle of Faces.

_You must come_ , the voice had said.

The girl inside her is still afraid. The beast is…not tempted but excited. Anticipating.

It isn't a comfort to know she is on the gods' hallowed path. She doesn't like what she thinks this place has in store for her.


End file.
